


A Spinning Wheel Song

by Quillori



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Svarta Rosor | Black Roses - Jean Sibelius (Song)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 17:08:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14773706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillori/pseuds/Quillori





	A Spinning Wheel Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zdenka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/gifts).



She sat, and she span, and as she span she sang, and the lark itself would have fallen silent to hear her. She was sixteen, and she was the king’s daughter, and she was the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, if only for the sake of her smile: her smile, and her song, and the sunlight in her hair. Truly the very air about her seemed almost to laugh with gladness, the gentle wind to have no purpose but to caress her. The wheel turned and turned, and the thread grew long and strong, and all was well with the world.

She was sixteen, and she was the king’s daughter, and there was not a man in the kingdom who didn’t declare his heart caught in the net of her hair, his soul bound and enchanted by the sound of her voice. Not a man in her father’s kingdom, not in any kingdom a day or a week or a month’s ride hence: not if word could reach them of her smile, and her song, and her clever fingers that spun and wove alike with equal speed, equal skill. 

But she was the king’s daughter, and she had no need to pick any man, not for many years to come, nor would she pick other than the best, not for her sake only, but for the kingdom. No fine stuff can be made from rotten wool, and she who had everything always of the best (the strongest, straightest timber, the softest, warmest robes, the sweetest, coolest fruit) would offer nothing less to her father’s crown, to the crown that would one day be hers. 

And day on day the sun arises with rosy light, and sets with fire, the dying glow of evening giving way to night. And day by day the seasons turn, and flowers drop, and grass grows dry; the fruits of autumn blush and swell, the white snows of winter fall in silence to melt again into the first new green of spring. And day by day and spring by spring the days and the years and the seasons turned, and all was well with the world.

§

She was twenty, and she was the king’s daughter, and anon there came to her a man, a magician, who offered her his art, his cantrips, his long labour of learning, and his heart with it. And anon there came a simple woodsman, who offered her his skill with the bow and with the knife, his stealth and his stamina, and his knowledge of woodland ways, and the devotion of his heart also. And likewise a sailor, and a farmer, and a farrier, a goldsmith, a prince, a bard: each in their kind offered what they had, and offered also their heart, their soul, the worship of their body and devotion of their days. And always and from each she took the first, and passed by the last, for she had no need of hearts, who had a fine one of her own, that gladdened at the sun glinting on a pigeon’s wing, at a child laughing at its play, at an apple blossom swaying in the wind.

The traders come in from the sea, and leave again, now rich, now poor, as fortune falls. The merchant who goes in velvet robes, the labourer who shares a fishbone with his scrawny cat: each in their proper place, each knowing that place could change. But the years pass lightly, dancing as joyfully as petals on the breeze or an ascending lark, and no great sorrow falls upon the land, no harm that mortal man can hope to miss, and even death is tardy, slow to come, taking only the oldest, who have already a treasure store of years. She sits, and she spins, and the yarn is strong.

But even the kindliest, most-slow-to-come of deaths, uncle Death, good father Death, a death which neither harries nor pursues, but waits most patiently to be welcomed in: even such a death must come in time, and so it was for the king, who left a realm at peace, storerooms full and pastures white with sheep, a people well-fed and well-contented, and over and above all, an heir to be the guard and protection of that peace, that plenty. And all was as he wanted, and all was well with the world.

§

She was a woman grown, and she was the queen, and she sat and she span, and her song spilled forth like golden honey, like the returning sun after winter’s darkness, and peace and plenty were upon the land, and the dancing breeze seemed almost to laugh with pleasure.

And anon there came a wise woman, hobbled and stooped with age, and anon there came a beggar-woman who asked for a silver coin, and a herbalist, and a wind-raiser, and a woman who lived alone in the forest with her hens and her cat and her wolf. And each of them said what they had to say, and the queen listened, and nodded, and kept her own counsel, for she knew as much as they. She was the queen, and the land was at peace, and as these things were, so would they remain, for the thread that is made well will not break, and there was none to equal her for speed or for skill.

In time, as is the way of things, she took a husband, and some say he courted her with roses, and some say he courted her with words, and others that he courted her not at all, but was the man her heart chose. And there was rejoicing in the land, for all was as it should be.

§

She sang as she rocked the cradle, and her heart was glad; glad too as her daughter grew and ran from room to room, laughing in her play. What more was there to want? Her husband and her daughter, a land at peace and an heir, duty and pleasure combined.

But death is not always tardy, and he waits on the young as on the old, and with the winter winds her daughter sickened, grew cold as snow, her only colour the red of fever, and there was no more running. As the pigeon caught by the hunter’s slingshot falls and lies twitching, its blood staining the snow, so her daughter lay, life seeping away with every passing night.

And anon there came a priest, who told her the world was ever thus, and anon there came a doctor, who said much the same, and a miracle worker, and an alchemist, and a healer from the wood’s edge. And one and all they agreed there was no more to be done, and there would be other children, other futures, but this one could not be saved. 

So much then for their wisdom, for she was the queen, and she was a mother, and there was none in her kingdom or any other to rival her for skill, and as she wished, so would it be, and she would trade those other futures for the one that she had chosen.

Her daughter lay upon the fine white sheets, barely stirring, barely breathing, and already it was the kind, gentle arms of death that embraced her, that calmed her cries and stilled her into sleep. But her mother knelt by the bed, and took her hands, and kissed her cheek, and calling upon all her art, upon every lesson she had learnt, every secret she had been given, she wrought something never done before, and never rivalled since. For often a magician may send away his heart or his soul, hiding it in a wild grey goose, or a sharp iron needle, or whatever place seems good to him, to hide it away in safety, beyond reach of harm. But the queen took out her heart and gave it away, hiding it in her own daughter’s body, relinquishing it so that her life might give her daughter life, and her heart be no more hers. 

Well, so much have others done, with less perfect skill perhaps, less elegance and learning, but the end result is the same. But the queen did not die, for all she gave up her heart, her life, for her daughter’s sake. Who would rule the kingdom if she were dead, and her daughter but a child? Who would guide and teach her? Who would do the work that must be done, bear the yoke of duty? And truly she was loath to give up on life, who had taken at all times such joy in living, who had woven life always into a song.

And there was no need for it, for by her art she fashioned herself a new heart, a living thing to give herself life, taking the roses that grew around the window, the roses her husband gave her when he courted her, the roses she tended every day herself, delighting in their beauty, the richness of their colour and delicacy of their scent; it was these roses she took, and set them to grow within her breast, for just as the heart may be hidden elsewhere, in a tree or in an iron chest, so may something of the world be taken, and used instead for a heart. And the roses grew, and her daughter lived, and all was well with the world.

§

All was well with the world, and the days passed as they ever had, and her daughter ran from room to room, laughing and playing, and her husband watched indulgently. The seasons turned, and the harvests came, and the trading fleet, and prosperity lay upon the land as winter snow lies upon the fields, deep and inviolate and seemingly without end. Laughter echoed through the palace, a girl playing with her father; song rang out across the land, work songs and songs of praise and tavern songs, for all was as it should be, and there was peace and happiness everywhere, and the queen went here and there, as she should, and did her duty, and none had cause to complain of her, neither her husband nor her daughter nor her people.

§

She was sixteen, and she was the queen's daughter, and she was the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, if only for the sake of her smile: her smile, and her song, and her heart that gladdened within her at the cooing of the doves, at the daisies by the wayside, at the gentle touch of the breeze. She was sixteen, and her heart laughed for gladness, and there was none to rival her for the joy she took in life, for the love she bore every living thing.

She was sixteen, and she was the queen’s daughter, and the queen, her mother, sat in her dark tower and spun, and as she spun she thought on the endless days, the empty nights, the laughter she still feigned. The wheel turned and turned, as the days and the months and the years had turned, always the same, while around her others lived and loved and were content. Her husband who brought her no more roses - what need had she of roses who was half rose herself? - her daughter who turned aside from her to watch a bird in flight, the men who came still to admire and praise, but no more to offer their hearts, for love goes to those who could love in return, if they so chose, and not to heartless things, things beautiful as a picture, as a statue, as a reflection in a mirror, but cold and joyless as the depths of winter.

The queen thought on all these things, as she had thought for many days, for many years, her thoughts like thorns, cutting herself deliberately on their sharpness, for only the pain proved she was still alive, and every day even the pain grew less, grew numb and cold, as she herself grew cold. The wheel turned and turned, and the thread that she spun was strong and good, and all was well, all was as ever well with the world, but what was the world to her?

§

There was a simple woodsman, grown old in her service, but had he not once offered her his devotion? His devotion, and his stealth, and his knife also. ‘Woodsman’, said the queen, ‘go forth from here, into the green woods, where you will not be disturbed. Go forth and bring me back my heart.' 


End file.
